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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125481">Snow Kissed Bones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10'>Mishka10</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caring Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 22:20:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Light snowflakes kiss his cheeks, soft and gentle, sticking to his lashes. It is soft, so soft. He thinks it maybe was supposed to be cold, but instead it is so soft."</p><p>A fight goes poorly, Geralt has some trouble getting back to camp, struggling against exhaustion and cold weather.<br/>Lucky Jaskier happens to find him before anything too terrible can happen.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Snow Kissed Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is cold.</p><p>Fuck, he is so cold.</p><p> </p><p>It is unusual.</p><p>Not to be cold, he is cold often enough. Accustomed to chilly mornings, awaking to world dusted in snow, evenings settled close to a burning fire, feeling the encroaching freeze, swirling round the edges of camp. He is used to it. Pays it no mind, knowing he is more than strong enough to survive the chill.</p><p>This however… this is different.</p><p>It is unusual to be so aware of it. So painfully aware of it.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t be so aware of it. He has trained, he has practiced, cutting such things out. Burying down the unnecessary discomforts such as this.</p><p>Distractions, unhelpful in their presence.</p><p>He knows how to hide them, to ignore them, to focus on the task at hand and pay little mind to such things as pain and hunger, warmth or chill.</p><p> </p><p>But now…</p><p>It is no longer a silent passenger, hidden in the background, nipping at his heels in the early morning frost. This, this is something different. Something loud and angry. The cold had grown some bite.</p><p>It soaked into his limbs, deep and agonising. A burning freeze settled deep within his core. Fuzzy and <em>wrong. </em>He felt it in his bones, a radiating cold, settled in the marrow, buried down deep. It was in his blood, shifting, flowing through his veins.</p><p>It ached. Every part touched by ice. Every part chilled and cold. </p><p> </p><p>The pain is sharp yet… somehow numb.</p><p>Fuzzy and dull. Unfeeling fingers. Toes still and frozen, like ice. As though they don’t exist, as though they are no more than little icicles, clinking in his winter boots.</p><p> </p><p>It hurts.</p><p>Each step. Slow and heavy. Shuffling forward, foot fall hard and laboured. Legs aching and pained.  </p><p> </p><p>The rest of his movements are not slow.</p><p>His muscles move of their own accord, twitching, dancing, completely out of his control. Constant shivers running along his spine. Body shaking, twitching, unable to stop.</p><p>Desperate, uncontrollable little movements, his body struggling to fight off the cold.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses. Sucks in a breath, feels the sharp sting of cold air as it settles in his lungs.</p><p>He is cold. Gods is he cold.</p><p>And tired.</p><p> </p><p>His body feels heavy. Dull.</p><p>It’s hard, to try to push his feet back on, forward. Knowing he needs to. Knowing he needs to keep moving, keep going.</p><p>Reach the warmth, the safety of camp. Keep heavy feet moving forward until he arrives there.</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in another breath, forces himself to move forward. One step, and then another, and another. Slow and heavy. Clumsy.</p><p>A hand comes to rest a against a tree. He pauses once more.</p><p> </p><p>Lets his body fall against the trunk, propping him up.</p><p>He isn’t stopping. He swears. He is just taking a moment. A breath. Not stopping. Not for long, he swears.  </p><p> </p><p>Lets a tired head fall back against the tree trunk. Hair tangled in the bark, rough and uncomfortable.</p><p>He doesn’t mind, somehow. The pain doesn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>He blinks, slow and heavy. Slow and tired.</p><p>He knows he needs to push up, away from this small moment of comfort.</p><p>False comfort.</p><p>He knows he cannot stay. He needs to move on.</p><p> </p><p>But tired eyes don’t care, slowly drifting closed. The rest of the world slipping from view. Leaving him in a soft, comfortable bubble. Shut out from everything else.</p><p>He breathes deep, warm breath huffing out into the cold air.</p><p> </p><p>He feels himself sink down, legs slowly sliding out, shifting lower against the tree. He should stop it. Straighten up. He knows he should stop it. Now. Before it goes too far. He needs to stop it. He needs to move.</p><p>Legs continue slowly sliding down, sinking lower.</p><p>He knows he shouldn’t. He knows…</p><p> </p><p>He settles down against the ground. Back resting against the tree, arms tucked around him for warmth. Gods is his body heavy.</p><p>It’s just for a moment, he tells himself. He will stand up. Climb to his feet and keep walking. He will. In a minute, just a minute…</p><p> </p><p>Light snowflakes kiss his cheeks, soft and gentle, sticking to his lashes. It is soft, so soft. He thinks it maybe was supposed to be cold, but instead it is so soft.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, everything is so soft. Everything is so still and<em> numb. </em></p><p>His eyes are heavy, heavy, and aching.</p><p>His body is heavy. Shivers seem to be subsiding, limited to the occasional final twitch and jerk.</p><p>Gods his head is weighted, hanging low.</p><p> </p><p> There was something he has to do... something… in a minute. Just a minute…</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in another breath, no longer feeling the bite of it in his lungs, body too well numbed to notice.</p><p> </p><p>He is still. Still and soft and gentle.</p><p>Distantly, he realises he is no longer cold. No longer feeling the bite of ice and frost and chill.</p><p>He is numb, so wonderfully numb.</p><p>A fuzzy dull blanket wrapped around him tight.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>A murmur, somewhere, he can just make it out, whispered sound, quiet and light on the air.</p><p>He doesn’t listen.</p><p>He doesn’t want to listen.</p><p>To break his cocoon of comfort.</p><p>Let it pass him by, let it leave him be. He has no need for noise.   </p><p> </p><p>The slap stings. Cheek erupting in a sharp, radiating pain.</p><p>He gasps, eyes flying open, hand coming to rest against his face.</p><p>Other hands, ones that aren’t his, grasp the front of his shirt, shaking him with surprising strength.</p><p>He blinks, trying to tug away, batter away the insistent hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Geralt!”</p><p> </p><p>Another slap, quick and stinging.</p><p>He gasps. Takes a deep breath. Tries to bat away the insistent hands.</p><p>He grunts, manages to force out the words, “I’m awake.”</p><p> </p><p>Hopes it will be enough, hopes the troublesome hands will leave him be. Let him settle back into the numb darkness.</p><p>They do not, damned hands refuse to leave, tugging, yanking, insisting he remains present. He remains conscious.</p><p> </p><p>They tug him up, desperate and irritating. He relents, lets himself be pulled to heavy feet, leaning back against the tree, not yet ready to completely give up on this small space of comfort.</p><p> </p><p>But he is allowed no rest, hands tugging him forward. He slumps, heavy against the smaller body before him.</p><p>Hears Jaskier gasp, buckling slightly under his weight. The man bites out irritated curses, annoyed and useless insults, but keeps him standing. Tugs him forward. Demands heavy feet lift and lower, heavy feet keep moving, keep walking.</p><p>He lets it happen, slouched against the bard, body tired and heavy, but moving.</p><p> </p><p>He presses against the man, feeling the warmth radiating off the bard’s body. Feels the warmth begin to ease back in, slowly, slowly feeling was returning.</p><p> </p><p>Pain. Mostly. Numbness giving away to the sting and ache of the cold once more.</p><p>The heat pierces through like sharp needled pinpricks. Stabbing into him, uncomfortable and sharp, but his mind has returned enough that he knows better than to pull away.</p><p> </p><p>His mind is still mostly numb. Fogged and unfocused. He doesn’t fight it, lets it stay, cloud his mind. He needs no focus to stumble their way back to camp. Not with the bard there to lead him. The bard there to keep him on his feet. Keep him moving.</p><p> </p><p>He stays there, in a lost daze, until they reach camp.</p><p>Bright firelight dances at the edge of his vision. Jaskier slips out from under his arm, leaves him standing. Swaying. Feet uneasy, shifting side to side, mind still mostly lost. Struggling to focus enough to remember what to do.</p><p> </p><p>A hand on his chest guides him down, helps him sit. He goes easily enough, possibly too easy, almost falling more than sitting.</p><p>Not that it matters, mind tired enough and tough enough to barely notice the heavy hit of body against the ground.</p><p>Dulled fingers manage just enough memory to start to move, prise free his heavy armour, moving slow and clumsy.</p><p>Other hands, hands that are not his, appear, having none of the same issues he has, easily tugging open straps, buckles falling aside with ease.  </p><p> </p><p>He gulps in a breath. Feels the air in his lungs, the tinge of cold, fresh, and sharp.</p><p>Quick and clever hands dance over his chest, sliding heavy leather from his tired shoulders.</p><p>A hum, a warm breath ghosts over his hair, Jaskier’s voice breaks through the mist, murmured noises, he focuses, manages to piece together a few phrases, “Geralt…are you ok?... What happened?”</p><p>The words take a moment to pierce through the veil of haze, bouncing through his mind. He mulls them over, teasing them apart, trying to find the meaning in them. ‘What happened.’ Gods, what had happened?</p><p> </p><p>He remembers a fight. A sloppy, messy affair. One he underestimated. Underprepared for. Not enough potions, not enough supplies, not enough time.</p><p>It had been long and slow and messy.</p><p>Luck had not been on his side, fingers slick with blood, struggling to maintain hold, feet slipping against slick stone, rough brambles tugging at clothes… no luck had decidedly not been on his side.</p><p>But in the end skill proved enough to beat lady luck this time. A well timed, well placed swing, a head liberated from its monstrous shoulders, and he was finally free.</p><p>Success.</p><p> </p><p>And then.</p><p> </p><p>And then…</p><p> </p><p> Then the return. It should have been simple, a walk back to camp. Nothing special.</p><p>But he was tired, bloody, buzzing. Too much adrenaline, mixed with exhaustion. Too many concoctions running through his veins. Or maybe not enough. He wasn’t sure, mind to hazy to know.</p><p> </p><p>And then the walk. Slow. Focused, at least to start. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other, focus on moving.</p><p> And then… cold.</p><p> </p><p>And now…</p><p>Hands, pressing something against his lips, he gulps, flinching in surprise at the heat, warm broth pouring freely down his throat.</p><p>He takes the bowl, sets his own pace, sipping at the wonderfully warm fluid, feeling it move through him, feels his heart start to warm in his chest.</p><p>Shaking fingers clutch the bowl, feeling the warmth coming off it as well, keeps it pressed in close, safe from the biting chill of the air.</p><p> </p><p>It is warm, and good, and all too soon empty.</p><p>He gulps down the last of it, dragging tired eyes away from the light of the fire to face Jaskier, meet the bard’s nervous stare of concern. He knows what’s coming.</p><p> </p><p>Talk.  Questions.</p><p>Questions like - “What happened?”</p><p>He grunts in answer, he doesn’t want to talk about it, nothing had happened. That’s the shame of it, nothing had happened but him being an unprepared fool. An unprepared fool ready to have sat there, in the snow.</p><p>He doesn’t know if he would have died, if Jaskier had not found him. He likes to think he wouldn’t, he would have simply… hibernated, tough skin strong enough to keep him alive if nothing else.</p><p>Awoken the next morning, finally warmed by the sun, cold and aching. Stumble his way back on his own, cursing his stupidity and thanking the mutated mess of biology that kept him alive.</p><p>But part of him isn’t so sure.</p><p>Isn’t so sure he would have had enough strength to make it through the night, alone and exposed.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier sighs, tired, heavy. Wanting more from him, more he does not know if he can give.</p><p>The bard asks anyway, questions still coming “are you okay?”</p><p>This he can give, this one he can answer. Gruff and low, throat sore from the cold he answers, “I’m fine.” He hesitates, not liking the harshness, the unintentional rough edge of the words.</p><p>He swallows, uncomfortable, tries to soften it, redeem this, adds a soft, “thank you. For…. Finding…. Helping... thank you””</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier sighs again, but lighter, softer. Good.</p><p>He offers a small smile, lips flicking upwards, just for a moment. Jaskier smiles back, soft and comfortable, “well, what sort of friend would I be if I left you to freeze alone in the woods?”</p><p>“we aren’t friends.” The words roll off his tongue before he thinks about them. before he registers what he is saying, the instinctual response he is so used to giving.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier snorts, waves it off, but he doesn’t miss the flinch, the sour note of sadness in the air. Fuck. he doesn’t know what to say, how to fix that blunder. He tries, clumsy words spilling free, “I didn’t… just… thank you.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles again, a lopsided thing, smaller than before, but still soft, still comforting.</p><p> </p><p>He shifts, wants to… touch, do something, extend a proverbial olive branch. But he doesn’t know what, and he is tired. So tired.</p><p>Still, warm enough and awake enough now, to have a handful of questions, tugging at the back of his mind, ones he can’t help but ask, part wanting answers, part hoping to deflect, offer an easy distraction for them both, “how did you find me?”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier startles, a slight look of panic touching his face as he starts rambling, “it- I – um – tracked you down, - followed your… footsteps? Though the trees- or no, you’re trail? The sound- I heard-”</p><p>“-you got lucky.”</p><p>“…I got lucky.”</p><p>Geralt grunts, “it could have been dangerous, leaving camp alone, so close to dark. Foolish.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs, waves a dismissive hand, “I wager I handled myself better than you did, Mr. ‘let’s just sit under a tree and wait to die,’ some mighty Witcher death that would have been!” Jaskier pauses, voice going soft “I- I’m glad I did go, you…” he sighs… huffs out another breath, “you looked rough when I found you Geralt, you… you still look rough.”</p><p>“…I know, and… I’m glad you did too.”</p><p>“Are you sure you’re okay?”</p><p>He nods, it is not a lie, he truly is. Still a little chilled maybe, but not enough to really notice, the cold having once again become a silent passenger in his life. He is okay, thanks to Jaskier.</p><p> </p><p>They sit, for a moment, in soft silence, Jaskier’s brow furrowed in thought, something clearly tugging on his mind. He does not ask, he knows whatever it is, the bard will say it, sooner or later. Knowing Jaskier, sooner rather than later, words and worries always spilling out of him with such enviable ease.</p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, his patience is soon rewarded, Jaskier speaking quietly, so quiet he may not have heard it, without his hearing being what it is, “when I found you I almost thought… for a moment- I almost thought you were dead.”</p><p> He gulps, finds himself lost for words, unsure how to answer, thankfully he doesn’t need to, Jaskier continuing on without his input.</p><p>“You were so still, and the position, curled up… it seemed so… unnatural, I almost thought something had already happened.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know what to say. What to do. What he should do. He manages a slight and stuttered, “I- I’m sorry.”</p><p>“… and you know something worse? For a moment there- I was relieved, that at least I had found you, at least I would know, for certain, what had happened, that I could burry your body and put you to rest.</p><p>Because the entire walk over there- the entire walk, I kept thinking about what would happen if I didn’t find you, if I never found you, never knew, if you had left or if you had been killed. Never know if you were lying somewhere… alone in the woods, slowly fading from the world, never to be found by a human being ever again…”</p><p> </p><p>There are tears, twinkling in the corner of the bard’s eyes. He wants to wipe them away, rub a rough thumb over those soft cheeks and remove them from existence.</p><p>But he doesn’t.</p><p>He doesn’t move. He feels almost frozen once more, muscles stiff and unresponsive. He wishes he knew what to do.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier laughs, wet and messy and <em>hurt</em>. Wipes the unfallen tears from his own eyes, offering a painful smile, and fuck, does he want to do something.</p><p>He shifts, almost without thinking, hand reaching out to curl around one of Jaskier’s. Thumb stroking the back of the bard’s hand, hoping it will mean something. Hoping it will help.</p><p>He manages another mangled, “I’m sorry,” still unsure what else he can do.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier keeps talking, words still coming, quick and messy, “I guess on some level I always knew it could happen, you could go out on a job, on a hunt one day, and just never return but… but I guess I always assumed you wouldn’t, always assumed I would die first, finally get myself dragged into something I couldn’t get out of.”</p><p>He stiffens at that. Doesn’t want to think about it. Think about Jaskier dying. Think about Jaskier thinking about dying… it was too much, all too much.</p><p>Jaskier sniffs, looking away, a messy smile still playing on his lips, “I- I’m sorry, I just… I’m so- relieved you aren’t dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m… I should be the one… apologising. It… today… I was foolish. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I put you through that.”</p><p>Jaskier offers a startled laugh, squeezing his hand in response, “thank you, Geralt, I-thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>He wants to say more, do more, but he doesn’t know what, doesn’t know what to do.</p><p>Jaskier wipes his eyes again, cleaning up, pulling away.</p><p>Moment done.</p><p> </p><p>He lets it go, lets the bard’s hand slip free from his, watching Jaskier shift, stretch, move to get up.</p><p>He could let the man go, get ready for bed, get ready himself, give in to the instant tug of exhaustion pulling on his mind…</p><p> </p><p>“Jaskier-”</p><p>The bard pauses the moment he speaks, wet but hopeful eyes flicking back to meet his.</p><p>“I… we… are friends.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts, shakes his head, offers a wide smile and a cheeky, “I know, Geralt, despite your best assistance otherwise, I know.”</p><p>“I… good. Good.”</p><p>The bard pauses again, looking at him, still so soft, with a tinge of concern, “Geralt… I know this can be hard for you to… admit, but… we are friends, and we… care about each other. I care about you.”</p><p>He gulps, eyes flicking away, suddenly uncomfortable under Jaskier’s gaze. But knows the words are true. Knows he reciprocates them, even if he rarely finds the way to say it.   </p><p>He nods, sharp, direct. Hopes that’s enough. Offers a final soft, “thank you,” in case it isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier moves away, this time he lets him go.</p><p>There is more he wants to say, more he wishes he could say. More he doesn’t even feel he knows himself.</p><p>But that is a mess for another day. Not for now, not for a tired brain to rip apart and stumble over, making a mess of everything.</p><p>For now, he will let it go, content with the understanding of care they had between them.</p><p>Content that for now, that is enough.</p><p>That it is okay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>-thanks for reading-</p></blockquote></div></div>
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